We go wandering at night and are consumed by fire
by LizDarcy1
Summary: "She rolls her eyes and starts up the stairs with only a quick glance behind her, but he's never had a problem taking hints." Darkish Dasey. M for a reason. One shot. Posting problem fixed.


"We go wandering at night and are consumed by fire. " _-A Latin palindrome_

Night. Her breath comes fast and loud as their bodies roll over each other, as, slick with sweat, they trade limbs, grasping, thrusting, clutching until they lose all separateness and cannot tell where she ends and he begins. Vaguely, she wonders if they are making too much noise, if their siblings down the hall are awake, confused and maybe a little disgusted, but the thought is slippery and easily forgotten as his teeth scrape her throat and his fingers press the exact right spot, whirling her into oblivion, following her there.

Morning. She doesn't look at him as she pours her cereal. She does not react as he stands behind her, too close, stretching along the length of her as he reaches to the cabinets above to grab a box for himself. They sit at the counter, trade insults. He finishes a homework assignment, she touches up her make-up. The family mills around them, unsuspicious.

School. She and Emily eat lunch together. Both agree the new transfer student shows promise and hope they have a class with him. He goofs around with Sam and Ralph, flirts with the cheerleaders, makes a date for Friday night. She drags her hand along his middle-a little bit lower-while crowded together during a fire drill. He returns the favor to her ass as they file back into the school. The transfer student is in her final class. She offers one-on-one tutoring to help him catch up. He makes a date for Saturday night with a volleyball player.

Ride home. She puts one foot on the dashboard so her skirt slides up her thigh. She strokes slowly up and down, pushing it even farther. He barely makes it out of the sight of the school before his hand joins hers, delving deeper, wrenching aside her underwear, driving in and out with violence. She cries out, grips his thigh. Indicates with a jerk of her head that he should pull into an empty lot. Before the car is in park, she tugs his belt loose, attacks the button and zipper. He doesn't help. She thrusts his jeans down to his knees. Her mouth closes over him. He braces one hand on the window, shoves the other in her hair. Loses control. His pants come back up, her skirt is pulled down. He starts the car. They don't speak.

Saturday night. The volleyball player is taller than he is by an inch. She cracks her gum and says every sentence like it's a question. Her cherry lip gloss tastes like medicine. But her hair is brown and her eyes are blue. When his hands slip beneath her waistband as they sit in the backseat of The Prince, she breathes, "Der-_ek_." He closes his eyes and pretends. The transfer student shows up in slacks, compliments Nora's decorating, shakes George's hand. Pulls out her chair at the kitchen counter. Doesn't take the hint as she touches his knee and suggests they move to her room to get away from all the commotion. The stack of note cards piles up. She watches the clock.

Later. The volleyball player is home by curfew. He comes home to find the transfer student still discussing covalent bonds and not quite keeping his hands to himself. A harsh look sends him scrambling for the exit. She rolls her eyes and starts up the stairs with only a quick glance behind her, but he's never had a problem taking hints. Their shirts are off before her door closes, their pants before they reach the bed. But when her hands are frantic, his become still. Her kisses bruise his lips, his caress. She stops, asks what's wrong. Nothing, he only wants to go slow. They never go slow, never take the time to enjoy each other. She's off the bed in a flash, tugging on clothes. Why is he doing this? Doesn't he know this can never be real? She thought he understood. What would their parents say, their friends, Lizzie, Marti, Edwin? She couldn't handle the disappointment, the stares, the judgment. But what if it _is _real? What if he loves her? Doesn't that mean they should try? Isn't that enough?

Morning. She stares at him as he pours his cereal, he moves out of her way as she reaches for her own box. She sits at the counter, he eats in front of the television. The family avoids them, reluctant to be around when whatever their latest feud is reaches its boiling point. He drives her to dance practice because George demands it. They don't touch.

**End.**

**So I haven't posted in a while, or even logged in, but have had this story sitting around waiting to be finished (which I'm not sure it is. I may go back in and change the last part). Was inspired after I finally looked at my profile and saw some new reviews, particularly from Bertle (thanks!). So here it is. Hope you liked! Not really part of my "Unrequited Love" collection (which you should check out!), but follows similar themes. Standard disclaimers apply. **


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